Foundation

by Lainey Davis

  “He was trying to make sure he could get paid for the work,” I counter, shoving the pile of completed paperwork toward Mark.

  He gathers them up and shakes his head. “I don’t believe that, and neither do you.” But then he smiles and gives me a salute. “Don’t call me this weekend. I’m busy. But I’ll see you Monday.”

  And with that, he bustles away and I realize there’s no more work for the weekend, nothing pressing to attend to. In freeing up the staff, I’ve also sentenced myself to two entire days of myself.

  When I get home, I change and go for a run. I concentrate on the rhythm of my feet on the pavement, on timing my breath with my steps. I run along the trail that I never use, realizing when I get close to my office that I’ve got a lot of steam left.

  I manage to tune out all the nagging thoughts of my parents and my job and Isaac Brady. I’m just running, feeling my lungs open up. Sweating. I start laughing, because it feels so damn good. By the time I get home, I’ve gone six entire miles. If you can run four, you can run eight.

  It feels strange to realize that such a thing is entirely possible. I never stopped to consider that I might be able to run at all, but then I suppose I never thought I could take a sledge hammer to a wall to expose the original brick fireplace. “And look at me now,” I mutter aloud.

  I wander around back to find Valerie sitting outside, staring at the yard. The landscape folks are coming next week to level everything off and plant grass. She and I are supposed to discuss whether we’re doing sod or seeds or…whatever.

  The fervor with which I want to avoid being alone with my thoughts is so intense that I feel my arm waving at Valerie. “Hey,” I shout, cringing on the inside. “You have a second to talk about the landscape stuff?”

  She looks at me in shock, which is fair because I always am super crabby when I talk to her. It’s not that she’s completely annoying. It just bothers me to think that maybe I’m on the same life path as her. No spouse. No kids. Living alone, retired, with nobody but a bitchy neighbor to yell at as our neighborhood gentrifies around us.

  She pats the chair next to her on her patio and I sink into it. “You thinking of the sod?”

  Valerie shakes her head. “Hard pass. We should do perennial ryegrass now, and after the heat of summer, have them come back and lay Kentucky bluegrass.”

  “Wow,” I say, impressed. “You’ve really put some thought into this.”

  “What the hell else have I got to do,” she says, and then laughs. “I’m just messing with you. My friend teaches at that Penn State extension program. Do you know they have an entire major in turf grass there?”

  “I did not know this, Valerie.”

  She nods. “Yes! Kids can go to college and study grass. A few of my students have done that, over the years.”

  “I had no idea.” And it’s true, and it’s also true that I’m interested in the idea of this, the way she talks about how it’s important to study biology and even meteorology.

  “I bet Zack knows turf grass specialists,” she says. “His line of work, especially if he’s helping rejuvenate the land after strip mining…yes, I bet he knows plenty about turf management.”

  “I don’t really want to talk about Zack, Val, if that’s ok.”

  She sighs. “Welp,” she says, pointing at the yard. “Perennial ryegrass, then. You let me handle this part, huh? Seeing as you got everything going with the foundation beneath us.”

  I smile. “Just no ugly hedges.”

  “For the last god damn time, Nicole, I was going to trim it and shape it. You just never let me over on your side!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Zack

  IT’S BEEN A month. A month in which I have hardly slept, have ingested more than I think I need to know about machine learning, and have thought of Nicole Kennedy no less than seven thousand times per minute.

  The longer I don’t call her to apologize, the more I feel like I shouldn’t bother. She’s probably moved on by now, I think, and the image of her with another man turns my blood to ice.

  Orla says I need to grovel, do something epic. I have no idea what that means. I’m not an epic guy, and she seems to really dislike having attention brought to her in crowds anyway. There are literally zero examples from my life of people using good communication skills to navigate a problem in a healthy way.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts when Em, the admin for our building, raps on my office door. “You got a minute, Zack?”

  “Sure,” I tell her, tossing my pen across the desk. “What’s up?”

  Em pushes the door open wider to reveal Valerie, the woman who lives next to Nicole, standing in the hall. “She says she’s here to talk turf…”

  I chuckle. “Come on in, Val. What can I do for you?” Em smiles and backs out, closing the door behind her as Val sinks into the folding chair. I really have to do more with the furniture in here.

  “I’m not actually here to talk about landscaping,” she says, scowling at me a bit.

  “Well, is there a problem with the project? Should I call Lisa to join us?” I reach for my phone but she swats at my arm.

  “No! I’m here to talk about what an idiot you are.”

  Stunned, I widen my eyes. “Okaaaay. Care to elaborate?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. “Do you know that tonight, Nicole Kennedy is going to a fancy sneaker party with no date?”

  “I did not, but I really don’t see—“

  “And, further, did you know that she cries in her sun room? And stomps around the back yard kicking dirt and muttering about what an idiot you are? I hear her out there, on the phone with her friend, and then they hang up and Nicole cries. She didn’t even cry when her yard crumpled into the sea.”

  I open my mouth to explain that while the Allegheny River eventually reaches the Chesapeake Bay, her yard actually was sliding into the river. But Valerie presses on. “She’s rude and abrasive on the outside, but I think we both know that she’s very vulnerable beneath that shell. She’s like…tectonic plates sliding around over liquid magma.”

  “Tectonic plates?”

  She waves a hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a masters degree in geotechnical engineering and you don’t know about plate tectonics.”

  “Well, of course I know how earthquakes happen. But what does this have to do with Nicole?”

  Valerie plants both hands on the desk. “I called that assistant of hers and told him I want you to be her sneaker date at the fancy party.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out an index card with neat handwriting. “He says to wear dark jeans and sneakers, obviously.”

  “Valerie, I can’t just show up at her work function. It would make her upset.”

  “She’s upset all the damn time! Haven’t you been listening?”

  My heart lurched when Valerie said Nicole has been crying. She can’t have been crying about me, can she? Surely it was related to work pressure or something else with the house. Something she loves and cares about. “Boy,” Valerie says, continuing to shake her head. “It’s no wonder I never got into a relationship myself. Men are completely clueless.”

  I’m not about to disagree with her. She taps at the note card on the desk and says, “Tonight. Don’t mess this up.” And she flounces out of the office without another word.

  Sneaker party. Famous athletes. Nicole giving speech. Dark jeans and rolled up sleeves—makes her hot and bothered.

  I have to laugh at the thought of Valerie taking notes from Nicole’s assistant about what turns her on. This all feels a bit ridiculous. Showing up at her work event into a room where half the people probably think I’m a dick for ruining whatever we had simmering together.

  The Nicole I know wouldn’t have told a lot of them, though. She keeps everything so tight to the vest. I wonder if she likes vests, I think, watching as my subconscious plans my outfit for tonight even as my conscious, rational mind rejects the idea of swooping in to catch her off guard.

/>   I sigh and look around the office. I gather my things and head home, wondering if I even have any sneakers apart from my running shoes. I look at the note card again, consider the past month and how even though things have been going exactly as I’d hoped professionally, I still feel like shit most of the time because my personal life is, frankly, ruined. And that’s my own damn fault.

  Lots of people have now told me to do something about this. The only thing standing in my way here is me being an idiot. I go up one flight of stairs to my brother Cal’s office. “Hey,” I say. “I need you to help me pick out something to wear.”

  The party is being held in a new gallery space on the north shore of the river, near the sports stadiums. I hand my keys to the valet out front and smooth my hands over my outfit. Cal lent me a pair of dark rinse jeans that feel entirely too tight, but he says they look perfect with the bright orange high-tops and blue dress shirt he had me wear untucked, sleeves rolled as per instructions from Mark.

  I feel like I swallowed a Lego brick, knowing she’s in there and is likely to reject me and kick me out of her life forever for showing up here like this after what I said in the hotel and then just not calling her for so long.

  “Name?” There’s a girl in overalls at the door, a beanie slouched over her head and very expensive diamond earrings glinting in the light shining behind her.

  “Um, Zack Brady. I’m not sure if I’m on the list…”

  She smiles. “You are. Welcome. Enjoy a peach crostini as you enter.”

  A peach crostini. A server appears and hands me a square little plate made from bamboo. I pop the appetizer into my mouth while I scan the room, and then I see her. My mouth dries out and my blood surges when I look at her, laughing and talking with her boss and Augusto Cruz.

  She seems so comfortable, so confident. Her wild curls are down and just springing everywhere. Her green eyes flash above a black sheath dress with a boxy sort of neckline that shows the swell of her cleavage. I feel an uncontrollable urge to run across the room and tackle her to the ground, massaging her ass and kissing her, trying to make up for the past month where I’ve just wallowed in my own stupidity.

  I stare as a staff member in a headset pulls her aside and waves her up on stage. Nicole kicks off the speaking portion of the program, introducing herself as the director of strategy for Stag Law. The room erupts into cheers as she smiles a 1,000 watt smile, talking about this new foundation that Augusto wanted to create.

  She is electric on stage, talking without notes, smoothly and confidently. She introduces her boss, and makes to exit the stage, ceding the limelight to the guy with his name on the business. Someone hands me a drink and I clutch it, swallowing as I watch Tim Stag ask Nicole to stick around for additional recognition for her vision and leadership.

  “You know,” Tim says, draping an arm around her shoulders. “My big idea was to bring you all here to talk about landslides. Obviously I’m not the visionary around here. Let’s put our hands together for Cruz Wear. Are these shoes comfortable or what?” Tim holds up a foot and Nicole laughs. The staff are all wearing black and gold high tops with a C across the toe. Cruz, I guess.

  Augusto takes the mic and starts introducing the board of directors for the foundation and I take a deep breath. This is my moment. Either I swoop in and win back Nicole, or I should leave now and never darken her door again.

  The decision is made for me, though, because I watch her notice me standing there. Her head snaps my direction and her eyes flare. She stalks toward me, and I have the hugest grin on my face because I’m so happy to see her, even if she looks mad as hell.

  “What the hell are you doing here,” she hiss-whispers.

  “I missed you,” I tell her, truthfully. “I came to grovel.”

  “Yes, but how in the fuck did you get in? This is an invitation-only event for wealthy people.” She crosses her arms and taps the toe of one sneaker-clad foot. I notice that her calf muscles are looking tight. I smile wider, proud of her for working so hard on her running.

  Realizing she expects and answer, I cough. “Mark basically sent me,” I say. “He and Valerie conspired.”

  She rolls her eyes so hard I worry she will get vertigo. “Those fucking assholes,” she mutters, tossing her curls over one shoulder so she can see me better to glare at me. “Well.” And I’m worried she’s going to call security. Get them to toss me out. But she raises a brow. “You said there’d be groveling?”

  I look over my shoulders. “Can we maybe go somewhere? To talk?”

  “Nope.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Grovel.”

  “You were so incredible up there,” I tell her. I reach for her hand, wanting to touch her. Needing to feel connected to her. She shakes her head. I sigh. “I loved watching you in your element, watching your boss acknowledge how brilliant you are,” I tell her. She tilts her head, expectantly. I sigh again. “I’m so fucking sorry, Nicole. I know I don’t deserve for you to hear me groveling. I push people away,” I tell her. “But you do, too. Because we’ve both been shit on by people who are supposed to love us and, well, I lost my temper in Paraguay.”

  I watch her demeanor shift a little. Just the slightest hint that she’s on board with what I’m saying, so I push on. “That entire trip was the culmination of a lifetime of me not standing up to my father, of me not standing up for my ideas, whether that’s at work or in my personal life.” I reach for her hand again, drawn to her, and this time she lets me. When my fingers touch the soft, smooth skin of her wrist, I feel strength radiating through me. Just being near her, I feel more whole. I plow ahead.

  “I had a huge fight with my dad that next day, Nicole, and I came out of it in a totally new direction at work, in a totally new place. And as hard as it was to have that discussion with him, it feels one thousand times harder to open up to you and let you know how I feel.”

  “And how exactly do you feel, Isaac?” Her voice is softer now, though. Less irate.

  “Well, I’m crazy about you. I think about you as I’m falling asleep at night. I find myself thinking of annoying things to text you and imagining what your face would look like if I did. And then I remember that I fucked everything up with you and I just have to add the witty texts to my note file.”

  “You have a note file? Of jokes?” She’s trying not to smile, biting her bottom lip, leaving delicious indentations in the plump skin and driving me mad with want.

  “I have a file of jokes I want to share with you,” I clarify. I reach my other hand for her waist and pull her close. She lets me, and I feel like I exhale fully for the first time since I left her hotel room. “I don’t know how to be a boyfriend. And I don’t know how to open up to people, but I want to try with you, Nicole. And I swear to everything holy, I will never walk away from a fight like that again.” I meet her eye to find hers shining and wet, like she’s welling up with tears maybe.

  “Oh, Nik, don’t cry. Not for me. I can’t bear to know I’m hurting you again.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not hurt this time, you asshole. I’m happy.”

  “Oh. Well, good,” I say. I let my fingers dance up and down her arms, not wanting to lose this physical connection I’ve craved so deeply for so long. “How am I doing with the groveling?”

  “I give it a six,” she says.

  Smart ass, I think, grinning. “On what scale?”

  “One to eight,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.

  “I can work with that,” I tell her, winding my fingers through her hair and tugging her head back. Before she can say anything else, I lean in to kiss her, deeply and slowly. I use my mouth to tell her all the things I still can’t figure out how to put into words. I let my body communicate to her how deeply I’ve missed her, how badly I need her. How much I want her to give me another chance.

  “Be with me,” I whisper into her mouth, a plea and a promise.

  “I’ll think about it,” she says, and then she grabs me by both cheeks and pulls me b
ack in for another kiss.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Zack

  “BABE, YOU NEED to stand still,” I tell her as she wriggles with impatience. We’re standing in our hotel room in Delaware, getting ready to walk over to the start line of the half marathon along the beach.

  “It’s hard to stand still when my boyfriend is about to stab me with fucking safety pins,” she growls, wriggling again and snatching them from my hand. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “Suit yourself,” I say, shaking my head and getting to work pinning my own race bib over my Pittsburgh Marathon Relay shirt. I assured Nicole that it’s a newbie move to wear the shirt for the actual race while competing in that race.

  She wanted us to wear our matching Pittsburgh shirts, which I told her was totally fine since we ran that race last month. Beltane smoked Stag Law, of course. All of us are marathoners. Nicole might like running now, but she’s not Usain Bolt. I kept pace with her through most of our portion of the event until she started yelling at me for being anticompetitive and not sticking with the pace she knew I was capable of.

  I’m glad I was at the relay exchange ahead of her, after all, because I got to see her face when she charged into the check point to slap hands with Tim. She was so god damned proud of herself, and I was proud of her, too. She wore that race medal afterward and wouldn’t even take it off for sex. It kept slapping me in the face as she rode me in her bedroom later that afternoon.

  “What are you grinning about,” she huffs around a mouthful of pins.

  “Just remembering how you tried to give me a concussion with your race medal after the relay,” I tell her, taking one of the pins from her and carefully pinning down the last corner of her race number.

  “Oh,” she says, and then smiles. “I’ll probably do that today, too.”

  “Maybe our medals can clink together while I fuck you in the shower,” I tell her, pulling her in for a kiss. I smack her ass and reach for my ball cap on the table. “Come on. We have to get to the start.”